


Cas

by aucrio



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst with no happy ending, Castiel Whump, Dean Whump, Dean Winchester Whump, Dean fucked up, Endverse, Hurt Castiel, Hurt Dean Winchester, Implied Sexual Content, Kissing, M/M, Not Beta'd, Ouch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-12
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2019-03-03 17:32:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13346094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aucrio/pseuds/aucrio
Summary: "Cas."It can't be.





	Cas

**Author's Note:**

> Written in Castiel's POV, but being reffered to as 'You'.

_"Cas."_

 

It's a faint whisp of noise caught in the stale air, but you still catches the gasp, the shock, the old times holding on to that ~~_stupid_~~ word. It latches on to your heart and tugs at the strings, loops around the holes and pulls until it bleeds; a pain that blossoms into mindless tears that transparently cascades down dirt ridden cheeks.

 

It's far beyond endearing, more of a sick prank that hurts so, so, so much because this cannot be it — him. It can't because he doesn't say that nickname with so much meaning anymore; only a word that fell empty and void of you, him, this, _us_.

 

"Cas."

 

You ball your fists and pray to God — how ironic considering you stopped praying, believing, being the 'Goody-Angel-of-the-Lord' — that this is all some twisted dream that you'd soon wake up from because this is starting to rip you; bite at the stitches you sewn tightly across broken limbs and damaged dreams.

 

Memories come flooding back in a violent tsunami, rolling over you with such ferocity, strength, that you shake and waver over the meek scratches littering the old wooden table. The times when you were the — an — Angel of the Lord with faith so fierce and Grace bright with hope. When you brought the Righteous Man back to his family, back to his brother and so called 'Uncle', where chick flick moments were forgotten and accusations and snaps were placed. When those toxic evergreen eyes mixed with the clouds of Grace and rumbling storms, a bond tying them, sewing, stitching, molding, together in wrongs and rights; that special bond being your so called 'profound bond' as you had put it all those many years ago.

 

And those late nights where limbs attached and whispers were shared, blushes and pink hues dusting scarred skin. Those were the memories that hurt most because "Cas" wasn't the same as " _Cas_ " and "Dean" wasn't the same as " _Dean_ ".  You would look up and the Righteous Man was smiling, teeth and all, and he's caressing you, assuring you with sweet nothings as you move together in sync until whites cloud your vision and "Dean" turned into " _Dean_!" Then you both come undone.

 

You're shaking and gripping on to his shoulders with strained fingers and he had his hands gripping your hips until it bruised, but oh god you loved it. You loved every moment because that meant your molds were sculpted like some odd puzzle piece and the only way to fit was for you to hold each other, hand holdings, hugs, et cetera. The memories of the evergreens swept away by the blue tornado of whimsy hope. But those memories now hurt.

 

You fixate your gaze to his shoes and oh — they're still intact and not being held up by ductape found in a dumpster somewhere. Then you swim up the denim clad legs, hips, and the flannel you know he favours the most.

 

He lost it when Sammy said yes. Love and lumberjack attire.

 

You're gripping on to the edge of the table as you face him. He's still optimistic — as optimistic as Dean Winchester gets — and still has the green in his eyes. Your Dean only has specks of grey and the decaying limbs of the evergreen trees.

 

This Dean, it's the Dean that you drank, swallowed, inhaled, exhale. This is the Dean that made you fall, rebel, fight, kill, die. So many sacrifices for a single man, my have you gone mad. This is the Dean that you gripped tight and raised from perdition.

 

And you.

 

Dean staggers, holds one hand out as if to touch him but barely, "What happened?"

 

It's a simple question.

 

You.

 

But you say, "Life."

 

"No, what happened to you? What's happening to you?" Dean clarifies. He clears his throat and steps forward to reach out, to be close again because his Cas is still somewhere in whichever year he came from and seeing him, you, in such a state leaves him breathless and confused.

 

You pause to think of an answer.

 

It's still you. Always.

 

But what comes out is, "You're not you."

 

Dean purses his lips, "Yeah well... made that point earlier, remember? You were talking about some orgy and I walked in?"

 

"No, that's not what I mean," you shake your head, direct your focus to the splintering wood cracking beneath your clams palms. You inhale, exhale, and release, "you've changed, Dean."

 

Dean doesn't say anything so you continue.

 

This time, your voice cracks.

 

"2014 is different. You've put up your shotguns in exchange for machine guns and authority. You killed more than you ever killed. This, all of the crap that the years have out on you, Sam, me, broke us. But it broke you the most," You gulp and wet your lips, "When Sam said yes, things fell. You fell."

 

You look up to meet his gaze, and the storm inside those dead eyes scream. It's roaring in your head so a tear, a rain drop, escapes, as you say, "You fell and dragged me along with you."

 

You take a step forward and jab him in his stupid, frozen, chest, "So what happened, what's happening with me? You. You happened. And you know what?"

 

Dean wets his lips and whispers, "What?"

 

"You died. And I died along with you."

 

You're chest to chest. You're gripping on to the collar of his jacket and peering into the dying light, the dying love, inside his eyes because you? You're crazy, high, wobbling over the deep end and into an even deeper end. The whole you, present you, is breaking and the angel left within you seeps through the cracks and Dean can see. He can see the Castiel he loves begging for him to do something or he will. So he does.

 

He pushes you up against the table and kisses you. You're crying; when do you ever cry? You fist his jacket into your hands and tug him closer, inhale the innocence of profound love — what a load of bullshit — left in this clone of your Dean, the Dean who's dead but not quite anyone else can see that. Lips are chapped and it's fading into greys, but the kiss is turning them purple, blue, black, red. Teeth clash, hands roam in places that are foreign. It's a war between you/him and him/you and it looks like you're both loosing.

 

Sighs, gasps, moans, groans, whimpers fill the empty space left in "Cas" and "Dean" but they both know it'll never be the same, never hold the same meaning. Even when Dean leaves back to his time, he'll say the word with so much conviction it hurts, but you know your Dean wouldn't even bother. It's fucking tragic, but isn't this whole Lucifer thing too?

 

You hop on top of the table and wrap your legs around his waist. You can't get enough. You're addicted, drawn in because you miss this. When Sam would leave and you'd have the bunker all to yourselves, so Dean would jump you and you would pretend to be caught off guard. Or when you're both craving it, so you lock yourselves in the bathroom, switch on the shower head, and hope that Sam doesn't come knocking because you're too busy trying to keep quiet. The little touches to the needy kisses. The groans of names to the whimpers of "Dean". What you miss most though, was when you were able to hold each other without worries because you're comforted with the closeness of each other. When you two were smitten and knotting a ribbon across your hearts.

 

Where did it all go wrong?

 

"I'm sorry," Dean pulls away to nose at your neck, tongue lapping at that one spot that makes you pant and quiver. He finds it immediately. Muscle memory. He pants, whispers, "I'm so friggen sorry." and he rubs his hands up your side.

 

"Sorry won't cut it," You whimper and play at his hair.

 

"Nothing will," he sucks, licks, and you moan and grip.

 

"No."

 

"But I am."

 

"I know."

 

Then you're back to kissing.

**Author's Note:**

> I tend to mix up my languages a lot, so excuse any mistakes here and there.


End file.
